


A Scandal In Britannia

by gettingby



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Enemies to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mystery, Normal AU, Private Investigators, Terry the goat man and Jeff arnold the skunk man, This may be crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingby/pseuds/gettingby
Summary: Terry Fomorian and Jeff Arnold, once happily married, are suffering some problems. Thankfully (or not), they've each hired rival private detectives, Simon Snow and Baz Pitch, to prove the other’s infidelity.In a world of secret identities and broken relationships, can Simon and Baz solve the mystery of love?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 54
Kudos: 106
Collections: COE Winter 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ampithoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ampithoe/gifts).



> Written for the Carry On Winter Exchange! Amphithoe wanted a Normal AU with a fake relationship. Somehow, that became this, which is Normal but certainly not...normal.

**SIMON**

I think about quitting every single day.

But I’ve hardly got anywhere else to go, do I? A month after graduating university, I was unemployed and skint. When Professor Mage called me, asking for help solving an academic plagiarism case, I said yes.

I spent the weekend cross-referencing essays, papers, and presentations, trying to determine which student was the plagiarist and which was the victim. It wasn’t hard work—I’ve always had an eye for details.

But Mage was impressed. He recommended me to his colleagues and friends, and I started solving all kinds of little household mysteries: missing jewelry, tampered wills, poisoned felines.

As soon as I had enough money, I started off on my own.

Now, the cases pay better, but they’re far less interesting - divorce, divorce, divorce. There’s nothing quite as soul-crushing as spending your days tailing cheating husbands and wives, photographing them with their lovers, and presenting the evidence to their devastated spouses.

I think about quitting every day, but the rent is due on the first. So when yet another infidelity case lands in my inbox, I grit my teeth and read the email.

It seems a little more intensive in terms of hours than most of my gigs, so I consider turning it down - until I see the number of zeros after the pound symbol on the contract.

This Jeffrey Arnold must be _loaded_. If he pays me - and the terms of his contract suggest he will - I can actually quit this horrible job. Lock up shop, scrape the bottom of my savings, and take my attention to detail in a completely different direction.

I call the number in the email, hash out the details of the job, and kiss my laptop when his advance reaches my bank account.

One last job. One last sad, terrible, midlife-crisis-ridden couple, one last deposition for the Family Court, and then it’s going to be over.

I couldn’t be happier.

**BAZ**

Being a private detective was never in my life plans. I was successful in my economics degree and planned to enter law school after I graduated. But I’d scarcely tossed my cap and gown when something terrible happened - my aunt Fiona’s husband disappeared.

He’d gone missing, and as the days, weeks and months dragged on, without a trace of him, the police let him fade into obscurity. My aunt Fiona didn’t give up, and dragged me along for the ride. We found clues, interviewed suspects, performed reconnaissance. And after three months, we found Uncle Nico, alive and mostly well, held captive over some gambling debts from his youth. (His kidnappers had wanted to contact Fiona, but he told them not to bother - _“Pitches don’t pay ransoms,”_ apparently. Too bad my aunt didn’t change her name when she got married; she wouldn’t have been a Pitch anymore.)

It was terrifying, exhausting and unsavoury. It was also an adrenaline rush like I’d never had before. Fiona’s entry into the world of private investigation was greeted favourably - she’d done a good job in the past, when she worked for MI6 or Interpol or the CIA. (I’m guessing. It’s classified.) 

I delayed law school and partnered up with her.

My father was displeased, to say the least. His oldest son, top of his class at an elite secondary school and university, trekking through grime, taking photos through windows, and sitting in dive bars with a recorder on his lapel? He could hardly imagine it. But his disapproval only encouraged me.

We’re several years into our enterprise now, and Fiona’s giving me more and more responsibility. She still takes the high-risk, complex cases, but I’m doing more than I used to.

Her phone buzzes with an email notification, and a few seconds later, she says, “Baz, what am I doing next week?”

“I’m not your fucking assistant,” I grumble as I click on her calendar. “That American tech guy who’s convinced someone is poisoning his kombucha has got you at work dinners Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. Wednesday, you’ve got a civil case to testify at - during the day, obviously, but who knows how long that will take. Friday…” I squint. “What is this? ‘Nico and Fiona naked hot tub’?”

“Yup,” she gloats. 

I gag in response.

She walks over to my desk and rubs my back as if I’m actually ill. It feels nice for a second, before she smacks me on the back of my head.

“No need to be jealous that I’m getting laid and you’re not. Since you obviously haven’t got plans for the rest of...well...forever, I’m putting you on this case. Hours are rough, but the pay is incredible.”

I read the email, letting out a low whistle at the promised figure.

The case appears straightforward. Some guy named Terence Fomorian wants proof that his husband is cheating on him. We don’t usually take petty cases like these, since they bore us to death, but Fiona wouldn’t pass up a payday like this.

A traitorous voice in my head says, _it might be enough for…_

But I’m not thinking about that right now.

I check my wristwatch. I can start this evening, when the cheating husband leaves work. That’s only a few hours away, so I sign the contract and make sure the advance reaches our business account. I click through the files and pictures, making notes and researching the details.

I take my father’s deep green Jag, because I need to blend in with the business district. Before heading there, though, I go home. I freshen up my hair products and change into a suit - navy blue, slim fit. A crisp white shirt underneath, which hurts me to wear, but I’ve got to stay inconspicuous. I pull my long black hair into a hairnet and pop on one of my many wigs. This one’s a limp crewcut - nothing that would look of place amongst office workers. I grab my fake ID and credit cards, some boring sunglasses, and I’m out the door by four-thirty.

**SIMON**

I pull up the photo on my phone, one last time, even though I know I’ve got every detail down pat. It gives me something to do with my hands, to work off the nervous energy.

Terry Fomorian. That’s the name of the suspected-cheating husband. He looks mild in his picture - horn-rimmed glasses pushed up into chestnut-brown hair, a long nose, and a little goatee.

Around five, he exits the building. He’s wearing a woolly sweater and dark trousers and trots absentmindedly towards the Tube station. I chug the rest of my Unicorn Frappuccino and toss it in the trash, lingering just long enough not to arouse suspicion before following him.

It’s rush hour and this station is absolutely packed. But I could pick a face, a back, even a _sweater_ out of a crowd. I see him, corralled with the rest of the commuters like livestock. 

Three trains arrive before Terry’s able to force himself onto one, and I have to shove more people than I’m usually comfortable with in order to hop into the same car as him. I keep my face turned away from him, though he’s not paying attention at all. He’s texting on his phone, and he looks upset.

There’s a lot of stops and starts,and I’m worried that Terry will slip away in the chaos, but we stay on the train for over an hour until the city gives way to rolling hills and country houses.

Finally, Terry disembarks, and I follow. As far as I can tell, he’s headed home - exactly where he’s supposed to be going. But I can’t let my guard down yet. He might slip off, to some evening rendezvous with the local grocer.

As soon as Terry reaches the large drive where two cars are parked, he looks about surreptitiously and places one of his bags in the boot.

He enters the house, and I settle behind a comfortable-looking hedge. I would prefer a stakeout in my car, with a dozen scones in the passenger seat, but needs must.

It’s a tall hedge, at least. I can sit up as I peer through the leaves, watching the drive and front door.

I stay there for nearly an hour. I entertain myself by picking out the details in my surroundings - a broken twig here, a muddy footprint there. Not pertinent to this case unless Terry’s husband decides to off him. (Which is an awful thing to hope for, but I’d like an interesting mystery for once.)

Then, I feel like the direction of the wind changes. I look up at the clouds; they’re meandering west just as they were a few seconds ago. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I turn just in time. Grey eyes. Short brown hair - a wig, I hope. Legs like a Manhattan skyscraper.

“Well, well. Who have we got here?” His voice is musical. Cajoling.

“Baz Pitch,” I reply, not bothering to sound polite.

Baz and Fiona Pitch run an agency in town, and they’re unbearable. They think they’re so much better than the rest of us private detectives, just because Fiona was in MI6 or some tosh. (I don't believe for a minute that Fiona was a spy. That woman’s as subtle as a cyclone.) They think they’re so superior that they _refuse_ divorce cases.

Clearly, they don’t have the same financial concerns as the rest of us.

“Trying to steal cases from under me now, are you?” Baz says. “Pathetic, even for you.”

“I thought you didn’t do divorce. Fallen on hard times?” I hit back.

He grimaces, and I can tell that it’s a sore spot.

“Not hard to snipe from you if you show up an hour late,” I add.

“I actually tailed the client from his place of work, instead of just waiting for him in his garden like the pigeons he feeds every morning.”

“Obviously,” I say, then pause. “Wait. Who are you tailing?”

“Shouldn’t you know?” Baz says. “Jeffrey Arnold.”

“Jeff Arnold is _my_ client! I’m tailing Terry Fomorian.”

“Terence Fomorian is _my_ client!”

“Oh my god!” 

In any other situation, this would be funny. A classic detective caper. But in this situation? With this mich money on the line? It’s not funny at all - it’s a disaster. Baz is going to blow my cover, and neither party is going to be happy.

“You can’t do this,” Baz hisses. “Give up Terry’s case. I’ll pass him over to Fiona. You’re going to bollocks it up - this is a very delicate situation.”

“I’m not giving up my case! You give up yours.”

“And then who’s going to tail Jeff, may I ask? Are you planning to be in two places at once?”

Damn it, he’s got a point. Not that I’ll ever admit that.

“I have my ways,” I reply, going for mysterious. “And one of me is worth a dozen of you, Baz Pitch.”

“Maybe when it comes to an eating competition,” he snaps, and I growl. I know it’s unprofessional, but my sense of common decency disappears around Baz Pitch.

I tackle him.

He yelps and struggles against the arm I’ve pressed against his chest. “Unhand me, you brute!”

“And I’m worth two _dozen_ of you in a fight, Pitch. Been skipping leg day?” (That’s a low blow. Baz is skinny, but anyone can see he’s fit as fuck.) (Physically, I mean. Like he goes to the gym.)

“Some of us prefer to use our brains rather than our fists.”. His eyes widen, and he yanks off his wig, tossing it under the hydrangeas. 

I whip my head around and realise that we’ve been made.

There’s a man standing beside the hedge, looking at us. He’s Black, about our age, and wearing a faded denim jacket and wellies.

I look at the pins and patches on his jacket, catch sight of a rainbow, and do the only thing I can think of in this situation.

I lean down, and kiss Baz Pitch.


	2. Chapter 2

BAZ

There is a man, who I think is angry with us, but he’s smiling so I can’t know for sure. And then, a half second later, Simon’s tongue is invading my mouth with a vigour I thought he reserved for sour cherry scones.

When I return to this memory, I’ll convince myself that my reaction was because of my split-second reflexes and calmness under pressure. The real reason why I immediately grab Snow’s curls, tip my chin back, and kiss him is that I’ve thought about it every day since we met.

“Hi, I’m Shepard from Omaha,” the man says in an American accent, and Snow startles, as if he didn’t put on that little show purely for the American’s benefit. “Excuse the interruption, but are you guys, like, supposed to be here?”

“Er,” I respond, just as Simon laughs self-consciously. We all stare at each other for a moment, and the American man pulls out his cell phone. “Yes, so, very sorry about this, but I’m going to have to make security aware that --”

“No!” I say. “I’m sorry. This is terribly embarrassing. We - or should I say, I - usually comport myself with much more dignity. It’s only our second date.”

“Yup,” Simon says with a nod, and takes my hand. I tell myself not to swoon. And then I tell myself to swoon, because it’ll help sell the whole charade. “We’re just - so in love, you know? And this is just a really nice garden. So, uh, we might have started snogging a bit. No harm no foul, right?”

“It is a nice garden!” Shepard says. “I’m the groundskeeper, so I appreciate that, my dudes. But, uh, that’s also why we don’t really want people hooking up in it. Or ‘snogging’.”

“Understood,” I say, extricating myself from under Simon and brushing dirt off of my shirt. Blessedly, I left my disguise in the car. The last thing we need is to have to explain it away as some sexual fetish.

“I’m Shepard. I’m from Omaha. Nebraska? In the states?” he repeats, and holds out a hand.

Simon takes it enthusiastically. “Simon Snow.”

I want to kick him. He’s using his _real name_? How has this man made it through one mission, let alone dozens?

“Oh, do you know Penelope Bunce?” Shepard asks. “She’s mentioned someone by that name.”

“Yes! She’s my flatmate, actually.”

“Oh, sweet!” Shepard replies. “Yeah, I’m doing my PhD in carnivorous plants and she’s in my cryptozoology elective.” He rubs the back of his head and smiles from one side of his mouth. “When she mentioned you, I was worried you two were, like, a thing, but…” He motions between Snow and me. “I guess not. Unless y’all are poly, or something. But like if you are, count me in, because that Penelope Bunce--”

“You have a crush on Snow’s flatmate,” I interrupt. “In your course. Aces! Snow, you could invite them both to drinks sometime, right? Since Shepard’s such an accommodating guy. What with overlooking the trespassing and keeping this whole situation hush-hush.”

Shepard nods. “Oh, yeah, I’m so accommodating. Totally.”

“I can...ask her?” Simon says weakly.

“I have a better idea!” Shepard replies. “How about, since the two of you are dating, we all go on a double date together. That’ll be a good way to break the ice.”

Snow and I trade panicked looks. 

“Oh, uh, I’ve gotta run back,” Shepard continues. “They’re gonna ask where I’ve been. Can I have your number?”

He hands Simon his phone, and though he looks vaguely ill, Snow dutifully punches it in.

“Alright, friends! Nice to meet you. See you this weekend!” He calls over his shoulder, heading back to the house with a spring in his step.

*

_  
_

SS: Hey, it’s Simon. So we need to talk about this case.

BP: Who is this?

SS: Simon? Simon Snow? This is Baz, right?

BP: How do you know my name?

SS: Fuck off, you tosser.

BP: Oh, *that* Simon Snow. The profanity clued me in.

SS: You’re clearly not very observant. Remind me what you’re doing in this field?

BP: Certainly not snogging my colleagues in hedges.

SS: Lol... SS: Well, on that topic. We need to figure out a plan for working together on this case, because that’s the only way we can avoid a repeat of yesterday.

[DRAFT]

BP: I have no desire to avoid a repeat of yesterday.

BP: Fine. The Watford pub, lunch?

SS: It’s a date!

SIMON 

“I propose a truce,” Baz says, sweeping into the pub, all shiny hair and long legs. “For the duration of this case.”

“What kind of truce?” I ask. “We have to work together, if this is going to work. We can’t just stay out of each other’s way.”

“Yes, so we exchange itineraries, and make sure the two of us aren’t at the same place at the same time unless necessary. We meet thrice a week to compare notes. And we _don’t_ reveal any of this to our clients.”

“Of course not.” It feels shady, but it’s not our secret to tell, either way. “Uh, and about this weekend...”

Baz stiffens up. “What about it?”

“D’you have like, a day that works better for you? Or uh, a spot? I was thinking darts at the Mummers Pub—”

“Excuse me?”

“Y’know, for our date.”

“I’m not going to that, Snow. You’re the one who attacked me in the garden and got us caught in the first place. This is your cover up - I’m not going to be an accomplice.”

“Excuse me, if Shepard says anything to Terry or Jeff, that affects you too,” I snap. “What am I supposed to say if you stand me up, that we broke up already? That’s going to make it seem incredibly fake.”

Baz takes a deep breath and leans back, studying me through narrowed eyes.

“Fine. Terry and Jeff have some sort of function on Friday night, so we’ll both be off then. Oh, and Snow?”

“Yes?”

“Watch out. My aunt has taught me a thing or two about using darts. Wouldn’t want you to lose a pretty blue eye, would we?”

I growl. By the time I’ve come up with any sort of retort, Baz is long gone.

BAZ

I spend far too much time getting ready for my date with Snow. Well - not a date; an event related to our business arrangement. At least, that’s how I tried to explain it to Fiona. ( _”Good job making yourself sound like a prostitute,”_ she replied. Which was insulting - if anything, _Simon_ would be Julia Roberts in some hypothetical Pretty Woman scenario. I’d obviously be Richard Gere - I have the hairline for it.)

I don’t think Snow has ever seen me in my usual clothes; we’ve only ever encountered each other while working. It’s not like there’s social events for the private-eye community - it would defeat the whole purpose.

So I put on some jeans - tight, but still comfortable - and a flowery button down. I keep it buttoned up to the clavicle, but pubs are warm and I’m not above unbuttoning further if the situation arises. Not that I think any type of situation will arise, mind.

Shepard is picking up Snow and Bunce from their flat, so there’s nothing for me to do except sit at the bar and nurse a pale ale.

A couple of people approach me to try and chat me up, but I’m entirely dismissive of most of them. A man who looks like a ginger Hugh Grant is trying to sweet talk me when I see Snow, Bunce and the American enter the bar.

I wave quickly and they head over to Hugh and me.

“Friends of yours?” he says, as soon as they’re in earshot. “I’d love to meet them.” I watch Simon’s face twist into a scowl as he registers what’s going on.

I’m about to open my mouth to tell Hugh to bugger off - only, I can’t say anything, because in a flash Simon Snow’s tongue is searching for my tonsils. 

“Okay, okay, that’s really enough.” Simon finally lets me go and smiles sheepishly at the Indian woman standing next to Shepard.

“Ahem. Penelope, this is Baz,” he says, and I run my left hand self-consciously through my hair, which he’s undoubtedly mussed up. I use my right to shake Penelope’s. Her eyes bore deeply into mine, and her smile looks utterly fake. 

“Nice to finally meet you, Baz. Simon has told me so much about you.”

Is this a joke? It must be a joke. I smile tightly and look at Simon - he’s turned red.

Shepard claps his hands together. “Nice to see you again, friends. Shall we grab a table?”

We pick one with a good view of the dartboards. They’re all occupied, obviously, but we put our names down on the waiting list.

“So, Shepard,” Penny says. “How do you know Simon and Baz?”

“Well, it’s kind of a funny story. I work as a groundskeeper at this estate a bit into the countryside, and who do I run into there, snogging in the bushes on Tuesday? These two.”

“Tuesday,” Penelope says, raising an eyebrow. “Wow. I didn’t know anything about this until two days ago.”

“Well, it was only their second date,” Shepard says, and I grit my teeth. Why does this man have a photographic memory? Why is he using it to torture Snow and me, instead of - I don’t know - memorise more plants?

“Second - wow,” Penny says. “And when was the first date? Actually, tell me all about how the two of you got together.”

I’m about to launch into a whole cover story about the two of us running into one another at a club, when Simon quickly replies, “Grindr.”

“Oh,” Penny says, and makes a pinched face. I think Simon might have been on to something here; she seems like she wants to drop the subject.

“Wow, that’s really fascinating,” Shepard says. “You know, the last time I was on Grindr, it was just this black background full of naked torsos. How did you two find each other there?”

“Snow looks incredible in a torso-only mirror picture,” I reply.

Next to me, the torso in question - or at least the mouth associated with it - chokes on its beer.

“Yep,” I continue, smirking. “I sent him a dick pic, he sent me one back, and the rest is history.”

“Gross,” Penelope says, at the same time that Shepard says, “Adorable!”

Simon kicks me under the table, hard. I admire the mottled blush covering his face and as much of his neck as I can see.

“So, uh, how did the two of you meet again?” he says.

Shepard launches into an enthusiastic retelling of his relationship with Penelope. She acts put upon, and rolls her eyes, but it’s clear that she’s charmed by him. We all discuss their thesis work at length, which blessedly means that the spotlight is not on Simon and me for once.

“So, how did you start working as a groundskeeper?” I ask Shepard. If I’m going to be forced to be here, I consider, I might as well do some research.

Simon flashes me a warning look, but still leans in to hear Shepard better.

“Well, my bosses are this couple, Jeff and Terry. Terry works for the paper as a restaurant critic - he says there’s nothing he can’t eat. Jeff runs a business that makes artisanal perfumes and deodorants. That’s how they’re so loaded.”

I nod.

“Their old groundskeeper retired, and so they contacted one of my professors for recommendations. My professor knew that I was an American student, so I wasn’t cleared to work here. He recommended this job, since it’s sort of unofficial. I grew up on a farm, but I wasn’t really qualified to be doing this type of work. Still, when Jeff interviewed me, I explained a bit about my background—” he trails off, looking harried. “Anyway, er. That’s how I started working! What do y’all do?”

All private eyes keep a stock answer to this question in mind. “I’m a phlebotomist,” I say. 

“I’m a welder,” Simon adds. Penelope narrow her eyes, but thankfully doesn’t question why we’re so quick to lie.

Before any more secrets can be revealed, our group is called up to play darts.

“Should we do teams, or everyone for themselves?” Penny asks.

“I think it should be the two of us against Simon and Baz,” Shepard says. “You know, because they’re a couple.”

That subtle suggestion to Penelope of his romantic interest goes wholly unnoticed.

Working with Snow, instead of in opposition to him, is a strange feeling. Despite his general clumsiness, he’s fairly skilled at darts. I wasn’t joking about my Aunt Fiona - she keeps a dartboard in the office and has forced me to compete with her at least once a week since we started our business.

We handily defeat our opponents, and Penny complains that we need to switch up the teams for the next game. “Your team is stacked,” she bemoans. “Shepard’s American - he hasn’t been trained to do this since he was a baby. And I don’t haunt pubs every weekend, drinking my body weight in cider.”

“That hasn’t happened recently,” Simon huffs, but we agree to their terms. Shepard offers to buy the next round of drinks, and coaxes Penny into accompanying him.

I take the opportunity to confer with Snow. “Does the American seem to be hiding something to you?”

“Yes,” he says right away. “Why would he tells us that he’s being paid under the table, but avoid talking more about Jeff?”

“It’s possible that he’s holding back in order to impress your flatmate.”

“Maybe. But if he’s around so much, I think he might know more about the personal affairs of this couple than he’s letting on.”

“What are the two of you whispering about?” Bunce calls out, setting two beers on the table in front of Snow and me and taking her drink from Shepard.

“Oh, you know,” Simon says. “Sweet nothings.”

Penny pretends to retch. I roll my eyes.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll join Simon, and you pair up with Shepard, Baz.”

SIMON

Penny doesn’t seem very focused on the game. She pulls me aside and gives me an earful. “Did you tell Shepard this would be a date?”

“No!” I reply. “Well, not specifically. I may have allowed him to draw his own conclusions.”

“Hm,” she huffs, but she’s smiling a bit, so I don’t feel that bad. “Also, what the fuck is going on with you and Baz? I thought you hated him.”

My gaze drifts over to Baz, who is standing with his hands on his hips, coaching Shepard mercilessly on his darts technique. I shrug.

“I thought I did too,” I say, “But, uh — I guess I was just kind of obsessed with him.”

“That actually makes sense,” Penny muses. “I guess I should have seen this coming. I mean, all that complaining about his hair, of all things? And saying he was a shit detective because he was too pretty to go unnoticed? And what other reason could you possibly have had to watch all those YouTube videos of his recreational football team? You were clearly just ogling his thighs.”

“I was not!” I sputter.

“Then what is it?” Penny challenges. I sigh and look back at him. It’s his turn to throw now. His forehand is strong. Graceful. Fucking ruthless.

“He’s brilliant. And he’s kind of funny once you get to know him. And he’s really fucking good at darts.”

Penny’s eyes soften, and she sets her hand on my arm. “Sorry I doubted you, Simon. I thought this might have been some strange charade for your work, but I can see that you actually really like him.”

I wait until she’s turned her back to throw a dart, and allow myself to smirk. I’m a better actor than I thought I would be.

*

The next few days pass without incident. I track Terry. I watch him enter the building where he works, trail behind him on his lunch break, and eventually follow him back home. It feels like I’m herding him sometimes.

Baz and I originally planned to take shifts on this stakeout of Jeff and Terry’s mansiom, but since neither of us trusts the other, we both end up sitting together in the shed, or the rose garden, or behind the neighbours’ fence. Again, we don’t see much out of the ordinary. 

After three days, I send Jeff an email. I masquerade as a business associate, like we’d discussed, and request a phone meeting. (Obviously, I’m not going to call or leave a voicemail - this stuff is confidential.)

“I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary yet. Do you know anything about the timing of these rendezvous? During work, evenings, weekends?”

“I figured it out yesterday. Terry likes to shoot for sport. He usually goes hunting over the weekend, but I called one of his friends last Saturday, and he told me Terry’s not been coming lately.”

“Same time every Saturday?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I nod and jot it down.

BAZ 

Simon is tailing Terry today, so I’m staking out the mansion on my own. I squat next to the window of the tool shed and watch the front door through it. 

Nothing seems too suspicious yet. Jeff’s car is the only one on the drive. Shepard arrives around noon, and I notice that he’s dressed casually this time, insteading of in his landscaping clothes. He’s got a large bag with him as well. He walks through the side door, instead of the front, like he usually does. I don’t see him use a key.

I decide that I need to investigate more closely. I wish I could just bring Shepard on board with this mission, but he’s a loyal employee - or at least one that cares about his paycheck. He’d never agree to spy on his bosses.

I wait five minutes, then slip through the unlocked side door as well. It’s a storage room. Full of surplus gardening equipment, cleaning supplies, even a few umbrellas.

I pick my way through it carefully, worried that I’ll trip over a broom and all the contents of the closet will fall over like dominoes. I can’t imagine why anyone would use this entrance, unless they didn’t want to be noticed.

The house is large, and empty. There’s no other cars parked in the drive, and the housekeeper and cook drive their own cars whenever they’re here. It’s most likely only Jeff, Shep, and any other mysterious callers.

I can creep so silently you’d think I was a cat, or a vampire. I leave my shoes in an empty mop bucket and follow the sound of voices until I spot Jeff and Shepard. I sneak up the stairs after them with stockinged feet. They’re chatting idly, and I strain to hear them.

“Oh, shoot. I forgot something - I’ll be right back,” I hear Shep say. Thank snakes for his loud American voice. I duck behind a large statue of a...centaur? No; that’s the wrong way around, and horses don’t have horns. I hold my breath until he passes me by.

I keep following Jeff, hiding behind corners and turning often to see if Shep’s returned.

Jeff reaches an old wooden door and pulls out a key. It’s by itself, not attached to a ring or other keys. Curious.

He let himself into the room, and I take a glance while he’s passing through the door. There’s a fireplace, a big wooden desk, and a strangely medical-looking chair. Some type of office, I suppose. There’s a window that I suppose would overlook the front drive, but it’s covered by heavy shades.

I hear Shepard’s footsteps, so I duck through an open door. This room is full of candles, perfume bottles, and other scented objects - presumably made by Jeff’s company. The scents are sensory overload and I try not to gag.

“I’m back!” Shepard shouts. He turns the corner and knocks on the door to the office. I slip out of the accursed candle room to watch him.

Jeff opens the office door a crack, and then only wide enough for Shepard to pass through. 

But before Jeff shuts the door, I see it. A dumbwaiter.

Perfect.

My family doesn’t have a dumbwaiter, but my cousin Marcus’ family does. When he was a kid, he trapped himself in the dumbwaiter and I, as a weedy thirteen-year-old, was sent in after him. So I know my way around one. I only hope that the half a foot I’ve grown since then doesn’t hinder me.

I make my way down to the kitchens, which are tucked into a corner of the ground floor, and find that it’s open. I grab a long-handled ladle, climb into the dumbwaiter (Jeff and Terry must eat large meals, because all six-plus feet of me fits), and use the ladle to press the up button.

It’s only as I’m already on my way up that I realise it’s probably going to ding upon arrival.

I dial Shepard’s phone number on my mobile, and pray that his ringer is as obnoxiously loud as his voice. As soon as the dumbwaiter begins to decelerate, I hit call.

After a few seconds, I hear Shepard’s phone ring. It’s extremely loud - some song about being home on the range, plus a lot of buzzing. He’s still digging around his many pockets to find it by the time the dumbwaiter dings. 

I hold my breath.

Neither of them look my way.

I end the call and fire off a quick apology text to Shepard, to cover my bases.

I’m low to the ground and hiding in a corner, so I can only see so much. Shepard is sitting in a stool next to the reclining medical chair, and next to him, Jeff is wriggling out of his black-and-white striped jumper. The fireplace is roaring, so I assume Jeff’s removing the jumper because he’s warm, except then...he takes off his tee shirt, too.

Shepard is rolling up his sleeves and slipping on a headband to keep his hair out of his face. Jeff, now shirtless, bends down and - wow. I can’t see much, but I think he’s taking off his trousers. 

His body dips out of view as he settles into the reclining chair. Then Shepard lowers the stool, and his head disappears.

I hear a buzzing sound and I struggle to place it. It almost sounds like a vibrator. (For the record, I don’t own a vibrator - I only place it because Fiona once left one on my desk as a prank.)

Jeff screws his eyes shut like he’s in pain. And then, he moans.

I freeze in place, transfixed. I can’t take videos because it’s illegal in his own home, so I just watch and listen in horror. 

Mostly, I’m looking at Jeff’s face, but once in a while, Shepard’s head surfaces. Every few minutes, Jeff says, “Jesus Christ, Shep!” in a strained voice.

I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t want to know, even though it’s my job. It’s not that I haven’t seen targets in compromising situations before.

But not like this. Not with someone I know - at least as much as I know Shepard. Not...two men.

I press the Down button on the dumbwaiter while they’re too busy to notice me, and knock my head against the side of it as I go down.

SIMON

I’m sitting in the car park of an unfamiliar tower block when my phone rings.

Baz’s face pops up. He’s kind of smirking. It’s a photo I took of him when we were playing darts, and he’s trying to hold back a laugh but also preening. My heart jumps - only because I’m worried something bad happened.

“Hello?” I say into my headphones. I’ve got my camera in both hands, the long-range lens affixed to it. It’s clicking as I document Terry’s ascent towards a second-floor flat, holding the bag he’d hidden in his boot.

“Shepard,” I hear Baz say. “And Jeff. I saw them—well. Having sex.”

“WHAT?” Terry looks over his shoulder at my outburst. I duck under the steering wheel.

“How? Where? Why?”

Baz explains the whole story to me. “I cannot believe you didn’t take photos,” I say. “Or even try to from outside the room. Even to take a sound recording.”

Baz is silent for a moment, and with a trace of satisfaction, I grin. He forgot - rookie mistake. He’s come to investigate infidelity, he really shouldn’t be so shaken when he finds it.

The door to the second-floor flat opens, and I see a person in a jumper and leggings, with long hair in a ponytail, open the door. I photograph the interaction furiously, only half paying attention to the phone call. Terry and the woman hug, and then he enters the building.

I take a few photos of Terry’s car as well. Ideally, I’d be able to stick around for the duration of this meeting, but — well. 

Baz’s oversight is good for Jeff, who is the one paying me.

But that’s not how I operate. My job, at its core, is about finding out the truth.

“I’m going to come. Be there in fifteen,” I say. “Don’t move.”

*

Simon pops up behind the shed. He must have trekked through some foliage to get here, because there’s a twig in his hair. I open the door to the tool shed and let him in.

“That’s the window of the office. The shades are drawn,” he murmurs.

“Do you think they’re still going?”

“The light’s still on. What do you expect me to do? It’s not illegal activity, and I don’t feel like getting charged with trespassing and violation of privacy.”

“You work for Terry,” I point out. “He could have given you a key.”

“Still, going into the dumbwaiter - that’s violating a basic expectation of privacy.”

“So don’t. Go stand in front of the door. Hide, obviously, but have your camera ready. Take an audio recording from outside if you can, as well. Maybe snake a mic under the crack under the door, or into the keyhole—”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbles, folding his arms over his chest. I consider mocking him for not thinking, because that’s what he would do to me, but he looks strangely vulnerable. 

He called me. I don’t want him to regret that.

“I’ll help you.” I say gently. Baz looks shaken - I don’t know why - and nods.

He shows me how to enter through the side door, and then leads me to the locked office above.

I thread my Bluetooth microphone under the crack in the door, then we hide in a room so pungent that I want to cough. None of the smells are bad, per se, but the combined effect is practically noxious.

I hold my breath and press my headphones into my ears, trying to hear what the microphone is picking up.

The noises are quiet, but unmistakable. Moans and grunts and an ambient buzzing. I can’t think of what it could be besides for sex.

I don’t know if a judge could, either. 

Once I’m settled, I start typing on the Notes app of my phone.

_Go wait in the shed._

_You’re in no position to dismiss me. This is my work for my client._

_You’re going to break a thousand perfume bottles shaking like that._

He rolls his eyes but acquiesces. I stay hidden for a few more minutes, then retrieve the microphone.

I stay in the closet for what feels like hours, until Shep and Jeff leave the office together. I grab a quick cell phone video of that.

A few moments later, I see a text from Baz. _S just left._

And then: _Light now on in J’s bedroom._

I take the opportunity to leave the house and return to Baz. He’s leaning against the inside wall of the shed,  
gazing forlornly out the window like some sort of nineteenth-century heroine. He doesn’t look away, even when he hears me come in.

“Terry’s car just pulled in,” he says flatly. “We should leave.”

I nod. “Do you have a ride?”

“No, I walked from the train,” he says. 

“I’ll drive you,” I say, and lead him through the woods to the other side, where I’ve secretly parked my car.

BAZ

I’m an excellent detective. I stay calm under pressure. I’ve dealt with drug kingpins, arms dealers, even society grandmothers, without breaking a sweat.

And yet, I needed Simon Snow - an amateur, who takes divorce cases, who can’t walk five feet without tripping over himself - to bail me out.

“I have updates on Terry,” he says. “And it’s past two. Let’s have lunch? I need food, and you look like you could use a drink.”

I consider saying no. Bur his eyes are so blue, and his hair falls in an extra generous spill of curls today. It looks soft. I know it’s soft.

I’m physically tired, emotionally drained, and weak, so I say yes.

We go to the same pub where we met for darts. “Our first date,” Simon crows when we enter. 

I gaze coolly at him. “Third, according to our story. You could try harder to recall it.”

“Fourth, if you count the hedges,” he snaps.

I sigh. We sit down opposite each other at a two-person table. A waitress comes - Simon orders an enormous sandwich, and I ask for a glass of wine. 

I allow him a few ravenous bites before I say, “You have an update for me.”

He wipes his fingers off on his shirt - even though there’s a napkin right there - and takes out his phone.

I scroll through photos of Terry meeting a woman, hugging her, and following her into her flat.

“You don’t have more?” I ask.

“You called.”

“We could have gone back, instead of waiting so long for Terry to return.”

“There’s always next week. And, honestly, I didn’t want to go back.”

“Hm?”

“I’m bloody sick of this gig, if I’m being honest.” He sighs, and runs his fingers through his already-mussed there hair. My fingers itch to fix it for him. And then mess it up again myself.

“Why? You’re, and I hesitate to say this, good,” I say.

“Really? Mate, I’m an amateur. _You’re_ good.”

“Obviously,” I say, trying not to just lean over the table and kiss him. “I’m just being charitable. You’re slightly less embarrassing than I expected you to be.”

For once, he doesn’t seem upset at my words. Instead, he kicks me under the table gently. I kick him back, and we smile at each other.

I can’t stop looking at his lips. I think I’m about to blow my cover.

SIMON

Baz Pitch is surprisingly nice.

I mean, he’s still prickly, but I can tell he’s joking. And I don’t mind being the butt of the joke, not if we’re laughing together.

And he’s a good kisser. But that’s part of the job. It’s all just for the job.

He catches me staring at his mouth and raises an eyebrow. I clear my throat. 

“To answer your question, my work is boring. And kind of soul sucking.”

BAZ

“Because you do divorce. So branch out. You’re talented. You could get the references.”

“I’ve thought about it. But it’s exhausting, you know? Seeing the worst of people all the time. I like the excitement, sure, but there’s other ways I could get it.”

“Like what?”

He hands me his phone again and this time, it takes me a second to figure out what I’m looking at.

It’s a cake. A three-tiered cake with shiny black icing made to look like scales, and a dragon wrapping from the bottom to the top. Its head sits on the highest tier, and his mouth gapes open, revealing a candle inside.

“I like baking,” he shrugs. “I’m kind of rubbish at it, but…”

“You’re not rubbish! This is...amazing.”

“You’re just saying that,” he mumbles, blushing. “Everyone says that, but they’re just being polite.”

“Snow. In all our years of being acquainted, have I ever spared your feelings?”

“The opposite, actually.”

“Then listen to me. I have four younger siblings. My parents would pay a small fortune for this cake. You. Are. Good.”

“Well, don’t have the money, do I? Gotta keep taking divorces.”

“How much money does it take to post some photos on Instagram? To take orders for your friends and family and coworkers? Start small, and build a brand. Plenty of people with deep pockets would want to support a local boy with an excellent product.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess. I don’t want to promise anything to anyone. I’m not good enough yet. I basically just learned everything from the internet.”

“You need to trust yourself,” I say, as much to myself as to him. “You work hard. You’ve got business experience, and talent, too. You’re perfect for this.”

He raises his eyebrows now - both, because he can’t just do one. “Perfect, huh?”

“I‘ll deny that if you ever bring it up again,” I reply, swirling my wine glass.

“Alright, well. Tell me what happened today. I’ve heard about you. One time, you infiltrated the liquor smugglers in SoHo. You worked undercover for weeks, surrounded by seasoned criminals, as cool as anything. I mean, you must have been amazing in there.”

I tuck my hair behind my ear. This level of openness between us is weird. Genuinely weirder than just kissing, which felt like an extension of our rivalry. (Fighting in place. Mutual surrender.)

“It just affected me emotionally. Which is ridiculous, because I’ve seen much much worse.”

“Because of Shep?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I mean, if you had that - if you had a life and a home and someone who loved you - why would you ever risk that? Why would you destroy it?”

Simon swallows. I follow the movement of his showy throat.

“Yeah. I can understand that.” He laughs uncomfortably. “My last girlfriend dumped me over this job. She said I wasn’t really present when I was with her. That always thinking about someone breaking someone else’s heart.”

“Wellbelove, right?” I ask. 

She goes riding with my stepmother, and I’d heard through the grapevine that she was dating Simon, though not recently. “When did that end?”

“About a year ago. We’re still friends, but a relationship wasn’t for us. I didn’t feel the way I should feel.”

I look in Simon’s eyes. They’re like the ocean, and I’m being pulled in by the riptide. “How should you feel?” I whisper.

“Like there’s sparks going off in my chest.” His eyes are trained on my lips. “Like I can’t get enough. Like I want to be with someone all the time, and know every little thing about them.”

“Oh,” I reply.

I lean forward.

He leans forward.

We’re going to kiss. For real. Or at least, I’m going to kiss him. I only have so much restraint.

“Baz!”

Simon jerks away from me and slams his head into the waitress behind him. She teeters, and about a dozen beers on her tray go crashing down.

“Fuck, oh fuck. I’m sorry,” he says, slipping out of his chair to help her clean up.

My friends Dev and Niall walk up behind me. “Haven’t seen you in a bit, Bazza boy,” Dev says. I grumble but bite back a smile as he ruffles my hair.

“You’re here with Simon Snow?” Niall says. “Hope we didn’t give him too much of a scare.”

“It’s just a work thing,” I respond. “Don’t think anything of it.”

My eyes wander towards Snow and the waitress. He’s using a rag to mop the floor and talking to her, and she’s laughing. They’re very close to one another.

I decide to lean into my own altruism and walk around the table to join them.

“You’re so clumsy,” I chide, picking up some glass shards with my bare hands, probably irresponsibly.

“It’s all right,” the waitress replies, maintaining eye contact with Snow even though she’s talking to me. “Accidents happen.”

“Sorry for your trouble,” I say curtly, and then bring my lips to Simon’s ear. “Don’t hurt yourself, love,” I murmur, just loudly enough that the waitress can also hear.

She looks surprised, but respectfully retreats.

As another employee comes with a broom and dustpan to clean up the rest of the debris, I help Simon up by his elbow.

SIMON

I think the waitress was about to give me her number.

I wasn’t _not_ thrilled about it. I mean, I was more focused on Baz, but then I heard him tell his friends that we were only at the pub on business. Which, I guess we are, but the way he said it, his voice dripping with contempt, pissed me off.

It’s an issue of fairness, too. If Penny thinks  
that Baz and I are an item, then why should he tell his mates that we’re not?

And then Baz swooped in, and called me love. Just to make the waitress leave, as some sort of weird power play. Not because he’s jealous. Why would he be jealous?

Maybe he’s into the waitress.

Well, turnabout’s fair play. I return to Baz, who is now standing, talking to his friends. I get on my tiptoes, and then kiss him on the mouth.

He reacts immediately, his lips working against mine and his hands wrapping around my waist. If he could probably dip me backwards, like we’re in a movie. Not that I’d want that.

I’m a little breathless when he finally breaks the kiss. His friends look shocked.

_Take that, Baz Pitch._

“I’m Simon Snow,” I say, extending my hand. The Indian guy takes it first. He introduces himself as Dev. As soon as our hands part, he grins and makes a lewd gesture at Baz. 

The tall, skinny ginger - Niall - is more respectful, but also confused.

“How long have you two been seeing each other?” Dev asks. “Baz never mentioned anything.”

“For a couple of weeks,” Baz replies. He’s playing along. He knocks his shoulder into mine, takes my hand. And then he lifts it to my lips and kisses it.

He catches my eye as he does it, and raises a brow.

It’s a challenge. It’s a game of chicken, and he’s daring me to back down.

“Well, Baz has been single for bloody ever,” Dev says. “His family’s going spare. Even his old man would be happy if Baz brought home a boy, at this point. He’ll accept anyone, long as they’re human and not a stack of deposition paperwork.”

“Be nice, Dev,” Niall warns. And then he gets this mad glint in his eye. I feel Baz tense up.

Dev might be crass, but I think Niall is the bigger threat.

“I was just talking to Daphne the other day,” he says. “She’s throwing a party for Mordelia’s birthday, and she mentioned that she hadn’t seen you in a couple of months.”

“I’ve been busy,” Baz says.

“Clearly, if you’ve got the time to get sloshed in the middle of the afternoon. I’ll let her know that you and Simon Snow will be joining us.”

“No,” I gasp, just as Baz tries to snatch Niall’s phone.

“Certainly not,” Baz snaps.

“Why?” Dev asks.

“It’s a bit early to meet my family, Niall. It’s only been two weeks.”

Niall trades glances with Dev and sighs, pocketing his phone. “Alright. I’ll leave it up to you two.”

“Thank you,” Baz says.

There’s an awkward silence, and I clear my throat. “So, uh. I’ve gotta get home to Penny. I’ll text you, alright, Baz?”

“Sure,” he says. I linger for an extra second, to see if I’m getting a goodbye kiss.

I don’t. Probably for the best. 

*

It’s Thursday night. It’s been a slow week with Jeff and Terry, but the money’s still coming in, so I can’t complain. Tonight, I’m just in the office, sorting through my media from the weekend, trying to create a summary for Jeff about Terry. I assume Baz is doing the same with the audio and videos I took of Jeff.

Finally, I head out. I’m supposed to pick Penny up from her yoga class - she took it up after Micah, a guy she’d been dating since secondary school, cheated on her with a girl in Chicago. (I figured that one out, too. I wasn’t happy about it, but it had to be done.)

I plug the address into Google maps and start driving. The streets get more and more familiar, and I realize that I’m headed to the same tower block I was at on Saturday. I guess there must be businesses there, too, which is unexpected considering how residential it looked.

Penny didn’t give me any directions beyond telling me to wait in the car park, and I’m about fifteen minutes early because I was sick of being at work.

I park near the second floor flat that I saw Terry entering. I feel a pinprick of guilt that I never came back to follow up that lead; it’s not like me to leave a stone unturned.

But Baz needed me. Well, he called me. I don’t think Baz Pitch would ever need me. He wanted me, maybe, only because I was the only option.

My phone lights up with a text from Penny.

_Done, walking to the entrance now. I’ll meet you by the street lamp._

I like her message and then — 

Then I see Penny, leaving that second floor flat. Holding a small duffel bag that looks strangely similar to the one Terry stashed in the boot of his car, and then brought here.

I turn off my engine immediately and rush up the stairs, so that I meet her just as she’s putting her phone away. She startles when she sees me.

“Jesus, Simon, you popped out of nowhere!”

I ignore her and look at the sign on the door. It’s in small print, so I didn’t get a clear look at it last week. The logo is a disturbingly realistic rendering of a heart, with what looks like a magic wand running through it. Below it, the text reads “Broken Heart Yoga”.

I grab Penny’s wrist.

“That’s your yoga studio?” I ask.

“Yes - why? What is up with you, Simon?”

“I just tailed a client here over the weekend. Is it open then?”

“Yes, it’s open Saturdays, but not Sundays. I don’t go on Saturday, usually, because they always do some kind of trendy yoga. One time they brought in cats. Another time, they drove everyone to a farm and made them do yoga with goats! Can you imagine that - a goat doing yoga?”

“That’s ridiculous,” I agree. “Why’s it called Broken Heart Yoga?”

She looks embarrassed. “Well, it’s actually a yoga studio to help people cope with leaving a relationship. Or for those who are having relationship issues.”

“What does the instructor look like?” I ask, and Penny pulls up the studio’s website. Sure enough, the woman I spotted greeting Terry is the instructor.

I sigh. That’s not definitive proof, but it’s highly unlikely that Terry’s having an affair with his yoga instructor during her business hours.

I take a few photos of the office door and then head down to the car with Penny. I offer to hold her bag, and she lets me. It’s almost identical to the one I saw Terry with. It contains Penny’s yoga clothes and mat. And Terry’s probably contains the same stuff.

This spot was my only lead. It might be time to throw in the Terry towel.

Once we’re back home in our flat, I draft a text message to Baz about the yoga discovery. Before I have the chance to send it, I receive an image from him. It’s a screenshot of a conversation between Jeff and Terry.

_JA: We’ve been invited to a party in Hampshire on Saturday. I suppose it conflicts with your...hunting._

_TF: What party? I don’t know about any party._

_JA: The Grimms. It’s my only opportunity to see their garden before winter._

_TF: You and Malcolm Grimm, with this gardening rivalry. Give it up, he’s a farmer. You’re going to lose._

_JA: The groundskeeper and I are going to be in attendance. Let me know if you’re able to come._

Baz follows up the screenshot with a text that’s just “!!!”

And then: _“I called my stepmother. You’re coming to this party with me on Saturday.”_

*

Baz picks me up Friday night, once Terry has returned home and I don’t have to follow him anymore, and we drive to Hampshire. He’s a good driver and surprisingly decent company.

As soon as his housekeeper Vera opens the door for us, I hear the sound of two small feet pounding against the wooden floor. Only seconds pass before a whirlwind of brown hair and messy ribbons attacks Baz.

He gasps and staggers back, pretending like the blow knocked him off balance, and the girl who must be Mordelia shrieks with laughter. “I missed you,” she says.

Baz kisses her on the top of the head. “Missed you too, little puff.”

“I’m almost thirteen. I’m not a little puff anymore.”

“You’ll always be my little puff,” he says.

It’s cute, but a little weird against the backdrop of a house that could belong to the Addams Family.

“Welcome home,” a pretty, dark-haired woman calls out. She gives Baz a hug - she’s got to go on her tiptoes for it, even though he’s leaning down - and then smiles at me. I wave awkwardly.

“You must be Simon,” she says. “We’re so happy to have you with us this weekend.”

“Thanks for inviting me. You have a lovely home,” I manage to stutter. It is lovely, if you don’t mind the feeling of gargoyles watching you walk about.

“Have you eaten dinner?” She asks. Baz answers in the affirmative, so I do too (a bit hesitantly.) “Alright - settle Simon’s things into your bedroom, Baz, and feel free to turn in for the night. You must both be exhausted.”

Baz pauses. “I assumed Simon would take the guest room.”

“Don’t be silly! You’re grown up now. We don’t need to pretend we’re all saving ourselves for marriage.” She looks at me and drops her voice to a whisper. “Mordelia was actually an accident. I was three months pregnant at the wedding.”

“Daphne!” Baz scolds, but I just laugh and follow him upstairs. His room is as creepy as the rest of his house. When I duck into his bathroom, I realise that there’s a gargoyle carved into the wall above the toilet. We stare at each other as I piss.

“You can sleep on that couch,” Baz says, after I emerge from the en-suite.

“Why don’t you sleep on it? I’m the guest,” I complain.

“Only short people fit there.”

“Oi, I’m nearly six foot!”

“Operative word being nearly,” he drawls.

Baz goes to the loo to change and freshen up, and I take the time to organise photos, videos and notes from the case.

BAZ

I call Terry once Simon and I in are settled in the room. I pull out my laptop and my backup hard drive for reference, and share the relevant files as I explain the situation to him (leaving out Simon’s involvement, of course.)

Then comes the part I hate most about the job. Consoling the distraught client.

He’s shattered, as expected. I offer to contact a divorce lawyer, but he asks me to defer that until after the party tomorrow. Which he’s planning to attend, without informing Jeff or Shepard.

As Daphne surmised, we’re both exhausted. We go to bed not long after I finish up my work.

SIMON

I toss and turn on the couch for about thirty minutes. Finally, Baz sighs.

“Okay, you nightmare - you can sleep on the bed.”

“You’re going to take the couch then?” I ask.

“No, you numpty. We can share, I suppose.”

I pump my fist in the air. “Yes! And all I had to do to get in your bed was to pretend to be uncomfortable for half an hour. Well worth it.”

Baz laughs, a quiet but strangely vulnerable thing.

*

My job entails a lot of late nights and late mornings. (Not a lot of people sneaking around having affairs at five in the morning. It’s not unheard of, though, especially with the gym-going exercise fiends.)

Usually it’s hard for me to fall asleep before midnight, but I’ve hardly set my head on Baz’s fancy pillow when my eyes fall closed.

I sleep better than I have in a long time. The house is creepy, sure, but Baz is just familiar enough to calm me. Imagine that - Baz being a calming presence.

When I awake, without an alarm and feeling refreshed, I’ve kicked off most of the covers in my sleep. I run hot, and Baz is bundled inside a nest of them, on his side. Barely half of his face sticks out, and his hair is going every which way. There’s some tickling his nose, and I brush it out of the way for him. It’s as soft as it looks.

I check the time on my phone - eight thirty, meaning that I’ve slept several hours more than I usually do. Suddenly I hear steps, and laughter, and children’s voices.

“Wake up, Baz!” One of the twin girls shouts. They’re about four or five, I’d guess. She rushes into the room, and is about to crawl into the bed when she catches my eye and freezes.

I smile, trying to be friendly. “Hey, I’m Simon. What’s your name?”

Instead of replying, she grins and crawls the rest of the way up the bed, towards me. “So you’re Baz’s _boyfriend_.” She says boyfriend all stretched out, like it’s a naughty word. 

“Yep,” I answer.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?” I inquire.

“I mean, I like him because he’s my brother. But he sleeps too much and never smiles and he’s barely any fun.”

I hold back my laughter. “He’s loads of fun! Not kid fun, I guess. Grown up fun.”

“Grown up fun,” she replies, nodding. “Is that like, snogging?”

I open and close my mouth, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, light knocking on the door interrupts the conversation. 

“Mister Pitch, Mister Snow. Mr. and Mrs. Grimm are setting up at the venue. Breakfast is downstairs; they’ve asked that you arrive around eleven at the latest. I’ll bring the children along with you both.”


	3. Chapter 3

SIMON

Breakfast involves a mouthwatering spread of eggs and bacon and beans and bread and pastries. Baz doesn’t eat much - just some dry toast and fruit, along with his tea. He eats slowly, carefully spearing each cut fruit with his fork, then delicately bringing it to his lips. He chews like he’s trying to hide something.

He also is watching me eat, with an expression of what can only be horror. I don’t care - the food is good, and we’re on a schedule.

“Are you quite done?” Baz asks dryly, after about half an hour of me shoveling food into myself nonstop. 

“Yeah,” I say reluctantly, with a longing look at the cheese danish. Baz rolls his eyes and cuts me a piece.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Eat on the way,” he replies. I follow him back to his room.

He fetches my suit, still in its travelling cover, from the closet. When he unzips it, he frowns.

“What’s wrong?” I ask nervously.

“Does this...actually fit you?” He says with incredulity. 

“Oi,” I answer. “I wore it to my uni graduation, didn’t I?”

“That was, what, five, six years ago?” He examines the trousers carefully. “There’s no way these will fit you. You’re going to split your trousers in the middle of a child’s birthday party.”

“How do you even _know_ that much about my arse,” I huff, and Baz swallows. 

“I’ve got an excellent eye for sizing. Put it on, if you’re so confident about it.”

I’m hardly confident on the best of days about my clothing choices, and Baz’s commentary has not improved that. Still, I go change in the en-suite. When I pull the trousers up and try to button them, it’s an uncomfortable fit.

I turn around and twist my neck so I can see my arse in the mirror. Well, I think splitting my trousers is unlikely, unless there’s a dance floor at this daytime party that gets particularly wild. Still, it is definitely too tight for this particular context.

I show Baz, and he tuts. “You’re borrowing something that fits you better.”

“We’re not exactly the same size,” I say, gesturing towards Baz’s arse. It’s a nice arse - compact, but shapely. It suits him, but we would never fit into the same trousers.

“Wait here,” he says, and before I can object he’s disappeared into the labyrinth of a house. I watch the clock nervously, but he isn’t gone too long.

“These are some suits Daphne had made for my father a few years back. He doesn’t wear them anymore,” he says, setting them down. “They won’t be perfect but they should be a better fit around your waist and, erm.” He gestures generally towards the body part in question.

I’m happy to unbutton my tight trousers, even though Baz looks a little scandalised when I strip to my pants in front of him. I grab Mr. Grimm’s trousers and pull them on in the en-suite so I don’t offend Baz’s delicate sensibilities any further.

I look in the mirror and realise that Baz was right. They’re a perfect fit. I get why his dad didn’t want to wear them, because the cut isn’t as traditional - they hit right above the ankle and they’re a slimmer fit on my legs. Honestly, I like them better this way. And they’re much superior to my other option.

I open the door and spin around Baz, who actually claps in excitement. It’s kind of sweet, how much he’s into clothes. I used to think that his impeccable dress sense was another example of his vanity, but I have to admit that he’s on to something. I feel way better in this suit than my other one. More like a bloke that could be dating Baz, at least.

“Alright, now let’s do something about your hair,” Baz says. “I wish you had curl cream or anything of the sort, but I’ll do what I can.” He pulls out an array of hair products, then instructs me to dampen my hair in the sink. I sit on the counter, and he rubs and sprays stuff on me, but I don’t really mind. Baz’s fingers are gentle as they comb through my hair. My eyes slide shut - it feels nice. 

When he’s done, I slide off the counter and he puts his hands on my shoulders to face me towards the mirror. “Lovely,” he says, kind of under his breath. He seems surprised that that actually came out of his mouth.

“You should get dressed too,” I say. He snatches his hands away from my shoulders and runs them through his hair. “Yes, we’re going to be late, at this rate.” He rushes into his closet and pulls out what I assume is his suit. “If you weren’t a fashion disaster, none of this would be happening.”

I lay down on Baz’s bed and mutter a retort, but he’s already in the loo and doesn’t hear me. It takes way longer for him to get ready, but when he walks out, I understand why.

I can’t believe that I thought I could match Baz Pitch. He’s beautiful. Maybe that’s a weird thing to think, especially about a man, but that’s the first word that comes to mind. Just objectively aesthetically appealing, striking and at ease in his suit. His hair is pulled back in a little knot, with a couple of wavy pieces hanging out in the front.

“Take a picture, Snow. It’ll last longer,” he says breezily. “Vera just texted that she’s got the children in the car, so we’d better hurry.”

Pitch Manor is on a huge, sprawling plot of land. Baz explains that the gardens are past the woods which were once stocked for hunting. It’s about a fifteen minute walk, but since none of us are wearing comfortable shoes, I’m grateful that we’re driving over.

As it turns out, we are late. Most everything’s been set up but Daphne gives us the job of hanging a couple of garlands on a back trellis. I think it’s more to make us feel useful than for actual design purposes. That seems like the kind of thing she’d do.

While we complete our task, I watch Mr. Grimm chatting with the caterers - or possibly threatening them. It’s impossible to tell from his facial expression and body language which it is, and I don’t fancy getting close enough to overhear.

When we’re done, Baz and I settle at a corner table. He seems eager to stay out of the spotlight at this party. I don’t know if that’s because he’s nervous about encountering our clients, or because he’s just not that comfortable around large groups of people. The latter would have surprised me before, but now it kind of makes sense. I’ve always found Baz prickly, but he’s grown on me as we’ve spent more time together. He’s got a really sarcastic sense of humour, which I think is something of a defence mechanism, but once I was able to see through it, I didn’t mind the jabs anymore. I’ve always befriended people who were smarter and more composed than me; clearly I don’t mind a bit of verbal abuse. I couldn’t tolerate Penny or Agatha otherwise. 

No, what used to bother me about Baz was his oppressive superiority. I would look at him and think about everything he was that I wasn’t and absolutely burn from the unfairness of it all.

Getting closer to him hasn’t dulled that lustre - if anything, he’s more brilliant than I ever imagined. But he’s not so untouchable anymore. And when he’s being stiff and prickly to everyone else, but then commiserates with me, with familiarity in his eyes, I actually like him _better_. 

There’s probably something wrong with me, that I like that Baz seems to hate a lot of things, but doesn’t hate me. (Anymore.) (I think.) I guess it makes me feel special. Like I’ve been chosen, or something, even though that’s silly. At the end of the day, I don’t know the real Baz. This is just a partnership borne of necessity. I don’t know if he’ll even want to keep in contact after this. It wouldn’t be a good idea for two PIs whose careers depend on their unrecognisability, but I’m not planning to stay in this line after I secure the rest of Jeff’s funds.

I hope he wants to - stay in contact, that is. It’s hard for me to make true connections that aren’t just surface-level. I tend to convince myself that people are only nice to me out of pity, but, like Baz said at the pub, he’s never spared my feelings. So, just maybe, whatever this is between us could be real.

The guests trickle in as the party’s noon start-time approaches, the men in suits, the women in brightly-coloured dresses. Then, around 12:15, a whole crowd of guests arrive. Baz leaves the table and mills about closer to the entrance. I can see his eyes carefully scanning the attendees, looking for our persons of interest - Jeff, Terry and Shepard.

I glance around the garden, trying to entertain myself by studying its many details. Brick footpaths, little fountains, elegantly trimmed foliage. Are those trellised apple trees? There are several exits from the area that the party is being held in. The tiled patio is enclosed by a low fence, but anyone could jump it. A hedge maze further back might hinder other escapes.

Not that this is the kind of job that I need to worry about escape routes for - but I’m bored, and antsy. And despite my best efforts to keep my eyes anywhere else, they keep coming back to Baz.

After twiddling my thumbs for far too long, I decide to stand up and join Baz. We’re supposed to be a couple; it would probably be _more_ suspicious if we stayed apart too long, right?

“Think they’re gonna show?” I murmur into his ear, over the growing buzz of conversation. He shrugs. “Perhaps they’ve thought better of it. It would be a relief.”

His chest looks sleek and trim in his maroon waistcoat, and before I can think too hard about it, I wrap my arm around his waist and tug him closer to me. His eyes flash with the barest hint of surprise, but he recovers quickly and presses close.

I shut my eyes, savouring the moment. The hum of the guests is a comforting sort of sound, and the air feels fresh around me. Baz smells like he always does, something woodsy and citrusy and warm. Which is ironic, because he’s always so cold to the touch.

When I open my eyes, Baz’s face is closer than I expected. He’s looking at me with a strangely unguarded expression, and his face is flushed.

My heart leaps into my throat at the proximity. It’s just for show, I remind myself, but I must be truly starved for affection because for the first time, it doesn’t feel that way to me.

I wonder if he’ll kiss me. I wonder if he’d kiss me if we were away from all of these people - if we wandered further into the garden, maybe found a nice hydrangea bush to duck behind --

“If it isn’t Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch!” I hear, and Baz jerks away from me to follow the source of the voice.

Fiona Pitch has just arrived, with her husband on her arm. He’s wearing a slim-fitting black suit, and she’s dressed in a risque black dress. The v-neck dip halfway down her chest. They’re both in Doc Martens.

Baz grabs my wrist and tries to drag me behind a topiary, but Fiona speeds up and catches us. She’s tall normally, but with the added inches of her chunky boots, she really towers over her husband and nearly matches Baz in height.

“Good to see you again, Simon Snow,” she says. I swallow and cut my eyes over to Baz. I have no idea what she knows, or how I’m supposed to play this, and it’s only made worse by the fact that I’m absolutely terrified of Fiona.

Baz’s hand on my wrist tightens. “Hello, Fiona. Uncle Nico.” (He’s finally caught up to her.)

“Haven’t seen you much lately,” Fiona says to Baz, a smile playing on her dark violet lips. “I thought you were just working hard on the case, but I ran into Dev on the way here and he told me you’ve snagged yourself a beau. Imagine my surprise when he said it was a certain Simon Snow.”

Baz turns pink, and it’s actually adorable. “This isn’t the time to discuss it, Fiona, but I told you--”

“Yeah, yeah, you claimed it was business,” she says, with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Not sure what _business_ requires you two to eye-fuck one another at a kid’s party.”

Baz sighs. “Look, I don’t need to get into it now, but--”

I don’t wait for his response, because I’ve just spotted Terry walking in. I don’t know if Baz was about to explain our arrangement further, I only know that he absolutely can’t. And that we need to focus.

“We’re in love,” I interrupt. And Baz whips his head around and stares at me in disbelief.

“Yeah. I’m in love with your nephew,” I say, jutting out my jaw. Before Baz can open his mouth to say anything, I grab him by the waist and turn him around. Terry’s finally in his line of sight. His eyes widen as I give him a quick kiss on the lips.

Someone shouts Fiona’s name, and before she walks away to speak to them, her smile demurs to fondness towards Baz. And even maybe towards me. “I’m happy for you kids,” she says. “Baz is going to be much more tolerable now that he’s getting laid.”

“Fiona!” Baz stammers, blushing furiously, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd.

“Client at your three-o-clock,” I murmur, and he nods. Terry doesn’t seem to have noticed Baz yet, or he’s playing it cool as instructed. He’s grazing at the snack table, and ruminating in his own thoughts. And now he’s at the bar...

“There’s nothing to do but wait for the other two,” Baz says after several moments of observation.

“Can we get sandwiches, then?”

The sandwiches are the elegant but tiny kind. They’re on the opposite side from the snacks, and there’s a heinous queue for them. Baz taps his foot impatiently. He keeps glancing at the entrance, subtly enough so as not to rouse suspicion, but still apparent to me. 

“If you’re that worried about missing Jeff and Shep, you could just step out of the queue. I can grab you something,” I say. He chews his lip, considering, but before he can answer me there’s a general commotion.

“Good sir, there is a _queue_ here,” An older man blusters. The guests around us quickly fall into an uncomfortable silence. They part awkwardly, and with no shortage of nasty glares, for who else but Terence Fomorian.

“Excuse me,” he slurs, holding what appears to be an entire bottle of gin in one hand. He trots towards the front of the queue.

“Mr. Fomorian,” Baz calls out, just as Terry’s passing. He stumbles to a halt and twists around. When his eyes light upon Baz, he grins.

“It’s you!” he exclaims, and then he’s crowding Baz’s space. We’re boxed in on all sides, but even then Baz tries to inch away from him.

Terry is a good six inches shorter than Baz, so when he stumbles into his body, his face ends up in Baz’s chest.

“You smell divine,” he says with a long sniff, then promptly bursts into tears.

Baz looks down in horror. He meets my eyes and mouths, “Help me!” I grimace as I gingerly take Terry by the shoulders and try to peel him off of Baz.

It doesn’t work. If anything, he just holds Baz in an even tighter hug. And now - his hand is traveling a little further down than is strictly necessary -- 

I’ll be damned and drawn and fucking quartered before I let this walking midlife-crisis feel up my (fake) boyfriend right in front of me.

I grab Terry’s hands before they can enter unchartered territory, and yank him off of Baz. The motion sends both Terry and me reeling backwards. I don’t have time to regain my footing before we both fall into a tower of sandwiches. The serving table gives way, and the crowd gasps as we both crash to the ground along with the cucumber sandwiches.

“What. The. _Fuck_ ,” Baz snaps. He steps out of the (mostly preserved) queue and glowers at us. “Both of you, get out, now. We’re going to deal with this somewhere else.”

I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of the eyes watching us. The baby looks ready to wail. Mordelia, on the other hand, is cackling wickedly - like three grown men nearly coming to blows is the best birthday gift she could have asked for.

I help Terry up and dust myself off. I make about two seconds of effort to right the table before the caterers shoo me away.

“Watch the room, I’ll handle Terry,” Baz hisses, only quietly enough for me to hear.

“I’m not leaving you alone with him,” I counter.

He scoffs.

“Quit it with the fairytale-knight act. I had it perfectly under control, and you just caused a scene that could completely jeopardise what we’ve been working towards.” He runs his eyes over my body, but this time I can sense only disdain. “I should have known you’d bungle this job.”

I’m left seething as he escorts Terry away.

BAZ

I try not to hyperventilate as I take Terry out towards a bench near the hedge maze. It’s hardly private, but I’m hoping the guests will adhere to decorum and leave us alone.

I’m fine. This is fine - it’s not the first time I’ve had to deal with wandering hands. I’ve danced at my fair share of clubs, for Christ’s sake. I can handle myself. What was Snow _thinking_?

I have no idea what Snow was thinking. I have no idea what he has _been_ thinking this whole time - only bits and pieces, shreds of evidence I’ve used to build a rat’s nest of delusion. I need to get a grip on reality.

Snow is _pretending_. It’s not his fault that he’s unfailingly dedicated to every case, or that he’s so magnetic I’ve struggled not to propose to him since I met him. And while I am mildly irritated that he’s treating me like the damsel in distress to his shining storybook hero, I’m mostly incensed at myself. That I allowed, and even encouraged, any of this to happen. That I even came up with this admittedly flimsy excuse to bring him to my childhood home, and introduce him to my family, and fucking _sleep with him in my bed_. I’m a tragedy wrapped in a farce.

Despite his behaviour, I feel a kinship with Terry right now. Both of us are self-destructive, lonely perverts.

Uncle Nico sneaks by with a bottle of water for Terry, and mouths “All okay?”

I nod. All the fight has left my client, it seems. He slumps against the bench, red-faced, Evian dripping from his goatee.

I hear the foliage rustle behind me and brace myself for another dose of Simon Snow. Instead, I see Jeffrey Arnold and our good friend Shepard, emerging from behind a verdant maple with Jeff’s hand on Shepard’s arm.

My heart leaps into my throat. I consider tackling Terry and holding him captive under the bench until they pass, but it’s too late. Jeff has spotted us.

“Terence?” he says quietly. I hear a loud sniff, and then Terry folds away his soiled handkerchief and sets it in his breast pocket before meeting Jeff’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming?” Jeff says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds more like a devastated lover than a charlatan trying to cover for himself.

“I had a whole speech planned,” Terry says, his voice bitter. “It was going to be climactic. I was going to point at Shepard and shout, _my gardener is a snake in the grass!_ ”

He chuckles wetly. “But there’s no point, is there? I’m a disaster. No wonder you don’t want me anymore.”

Jeff’s face falls. He drops to both knees and takes Terry’s hand. I meet Shepard’s eyes, and then he looks past me. Simon is standing behind me, mouth dropped open. And crowded by the low fence, clearly eavesdropping, is everyone attending this party.

“Should we leave?” Simon murmurs, hands in his pockets. He raises both eyebrows at Jeff and Terry. “Perhaps this isn’t--”

Jeff pays Snow no mind. Instead, he continues to kneel in front of Terry, only now he’s dropped Terry’s hands. His fingers quickly unravel the knot of his black-and-white striped tie (truly a heinous choice with a black pinstriped suit - is the man some sort of badger?) Then, I watch in horror - completely frozen - as he begins to undo his shirt buttons.

This can’t be happening. _Why is this man getting undressed?_

He drops his button down onto the ground and starts taking off his undershirt. I glance back - Daphne and my father look horrified, yet riveted. My stepmother is covering the baby’s eyes. He keeps trying to tug her hand away, as if even he’s mesmerised by this discount soap opera.

When I look back at Jeff, I gasp.

There’s an angry, peeling, red tattoo on his chest and stomach. It’s a portrait of Terry, with some heinous Old English script below it, that says “YOU’RE THE G.O.A.T.”

“What the fuck,” Snow murmurs behind me.

For a moment, Terry appears to be at a loss for words. Then, he slaps Jeff, right where his own face is tattooed. Jeff yowls in pain.

“You bloody nitwit! I thought you were _cheating on me_! I have footage of you sneaking around your office with - with him!” He gestures at Shepard, whose smile, to his credit, has not flagged this entire time.

“I thought _you_ were cheating on _me_ ,” Jeff says. “You were lying about going hunting!”

“I was going to relationship counseling yoga!” Terry shouts. “Because I was stressed about _you_ leaving me!”

“Well, I got this incredibly painful tattoo because I didn’t want _you_ to leave me!” Jeff shouts back. He grabs Shep’s hand and pulls up his shirtsleeve enough to reveal an intricate pattern on his arm. “Shepard moonlights as a tattoo artist.”

“The _buzzing_!” I realise at the same moment as Simon.

This is next-level professional humiliation.

Jeff is now practically in Terry’s lap, and Terry is holding Jeff’s face. “I love you,” Terry whispers. “I’m so sorry.”

“I love you too,” Jeff murmurs back. And despite my intense desire to drop everything and flee, it does warm my heart. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.

“Let’s get out of here,” Shepard says gently. Jeff and Terry kiss, and the spectators burst into applause.

I glance over at Simon. He meets my eyes bashfully, and offers a hint of a smile.

Jeff and Terry deepen their kiss, which escalates until they’re actually trying to devour each other with open mouths. Terry stands up and starts climbing Jeff like a mountain goat. When the first moan escapes his lips - it sounds like some kind of farm animal - Simon, Shepard and I disentangle the couple.

“We’re parked through the woods back there,” Shepard says. “Jeffrey wanted to sneak in this way so he could check out the garden without Mr. Grimm noticing.”

Simon and Shepard escort Jeff and Terry to Jeff’s car. I take a few steps forward, but Simon shakes his head.

“I’m sorry about all of this. You should stay with your family - I hope we didn’t ruin Mordelia’s birthday party.”

I doubt that she minds She’s probably posted the whole fiasco on TikTok already, but now’s not the time to mention that.

SIMON

It takes several hours to sort out the whole mess with Jeff and Terry. I’m glad that my files are backed up to the cloud, because my laptop is still at Baz’s house. (Which is going to be right awkward when the time comes for me to retrieve it.) I explain the events, recommend some relationship counselors, and generally hold both men’s hands until they calm down. Shep is there the whole time, bringing snacks and water. When I try to thank him, however, he doesn’t meet my eyes, and his mouth sets into a line that just looks _wrong_.

I reckon I deserve that.

We leave together in awkward silence. Before we part ways, I say, “I’m really sorry, Shepard. For what it’s worth, I do still want to be friends with you.”

He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Yeah, uh. We’ll have to see about that.”

I fully expect to find Penny fuming when I return to our flat, but it seems like Shepard has left it to me to break the bad news. His decency even in the face of my lies and accusations makes me feel even worse.

“Can I talk to you?” I ask. Penny takes in my disheveled appearance and pulls a bit of cucumber from my hair. (From the bloody sandwich table, which reminds me how hungry I am. I could eat this cucumber slice - no, that’s a bad idea.)

“What happened now,” she says, resigned. I put on the kettle, take a deep breath, and start explaining.

Her face is eerily expressionless the whole time. At the end, she takes a sip of now-lukewarm tea and makes intense eye contact with me. Not for the first time, I’m glad she wears glasses.

“Basically, you and Baz messed up at work because you were being immature and unprofessional, and then you pimped me out to Shepard to cover for yourselves.”

“I’m really sorry--”

“Then, you surmised, incorrectly, that Shepard was having an affair with his _boss_ , and despite being aware that Shepard and I were dating, you didn’t say anything to me?”

“You and Shepard are dating?” I reply.

“Yes! I’ve told you this. Multiple times. Do you not listen to me?”

Now that I consider it, it does sound familiar. I hide my face in my hands. “I’m sorry. My brain has just been everywhere lately. I’m such a mess, but that’s no excuse.”

“I understand that your job can be complicated sometimes,” she says, and for the first time I hear her voice waver. “But after Micah, really? You would let me be with somebody that you believed was sleeping with a married man?”

I look up, and she sniffs furiously. Then, she takes off her glasses for a moment and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

“I’m going to stay at Shepard’s for a bit,” she says. “I love you, and you know I’ll always forgive you, but I need a break from your stupidity. Please, _please_ , think about what you’ve done.”

I nod, not daring to speak. Then I go to my bedroom and shut the door.

My foster mum, Ebb, always taught me that it was okay to cry - better, even. So I do. I wrap myself in my duvet, half-watch Dr. Who on my laptop, and allow myself to wallow.

BAZ

Father and Daphne usher the children home, leaving the staff to clean up. I wish I could walk back, but instead I’m crammed into the backseat with the baby’s car seat and one of the twins. This is nearly the most awkward moment of my life. (The first was when my father caught me in a broom closet with a boy. The second was when I told him I wasn’t going to law school.)

We shuffle out of the car in silence. My father only nods at me as he walks past, but Daphne touches my shoulder.

“I understand your work is your work, Basil,” she says. “But maybe no more covert operations at your siblings’ birthday parties? At least without letting me know In advance.”

Before I can reply, she disappears around the corner. I hear her voice and my father’s mingling with the children’s, and I sigh. I’m exhausted, but I don’t want to return to my bedroom and see Simon’s things there. So I walk straight to my car with nothing but my wallet, my keys, and the suit on my back.

I expect to be alone when I enter my office, but Fiona is there, still in her plunging black dress and violet lipstick. My heart sinks. I know that I’ll have to get chewed out by my aunt-cum-boss eventually, but I was hoping I could have a cry in the bath with a glass of red wine and a Sufjan Stevens album first.

“I know you think you fucked up,” she begins, “And maybe you did. But this is the _job_ , Baz. It’s unpredictable. It forces you to lie, and it has the potential to alienate your friends and family. That doesn’t matter to me; I’m a lonely old hag and my husband will put up with anything. But it _should_ matter to you.”

She pulls out a checkbook and scribbles furiously. Then, with excessive drama, she slaps the paper check into my hand. As if everything isn’t online now.

“What is this?” I say. She’s written my name on it, but the amount does not make sense.

“Severance pay, kiddo. You’re fired.”

*

It takes quite a bit of screaming before she admits that she’s actually buying me out of the business, not firing me, and that it’s my choice whether or not to go.

“You know where I stand,” she finally concedes. “But at least take the money. Put it in your little mystery fund.”

I sigh and rub my temples. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because,” I say, dropping my hands on my lap and squaring my shoulders, “I’m saving up to buy _you_ out, Fiona.”

She stares at me for a good ten seconds, then bursts out laughing. “Jesus, Baz, am I your charity case now? What are you on about?”

“It’s not charity. I’m on about exactly what I’m saying - which is that I aspire to take over this firm when you retire.”

“Kid,” she says, “You’re smart. You’ve got connections. You went to a top university! You were accepted into a top law school! It’s alright if you don’t want to be a lawyer but - come on.”

“You do the same job I do, Fi. You choose to, every day. Why is it so hard to believe that I want a career in private investigation?”

When she doesn’t reply, I press on. “I’m not afraid to work long hours, or deal with unsavoury clients. I’m good at this, and I actually enjoy it. Even on the worst days, even with the worst cases, there’s nothing else I’d rather do.” And when I think back to the complete disaster that was today, I feel even more assured that it’s true.

She listens to the rest of my diatribe calmly, her agitation only demonstrated by the fact that she’s fiddling with her lighter. Fiona hasn’t touched a cigarette in twenty years, but she still carries one. She flicks it and watches the flame appear and disappear.

Finally, I fall silent. She nods, claps me on the back, and materialises a bottle of whisky and two glasses from her desk.

Once the drinks are poured, we clink our glasses together.

“Baz Pitch, PI,” she says. “I’ll drink to that.”

SIMON

In the morning my first stop is Shepard’s. I text ahead to ask if he and Penny are okay with me coming over so soon, and they agree.

I whip up a batch of the chocolate chip cookies I know Penny loves, steel myself for her inevitable disappointment, and drive over.

I’ve never been to Shepard’s flat before. He lives midway between the university and Jeff and Terry’s manor. 

I rap my knuckles against the door and try to keep breathing. Penny answers it almost immediately. Her hair is in a bun, and she’s standing in her pyjamas with her arms crossed. She looks ferocious. It’s an expression I’ve seen directed at others countless times, but it’s much less fun when it’s turned on me.

She holds out her hands for the cookie tin without saying anything, then turns around. I follow her to the living room, where Shep is working on his laptop. I wonder if she’ll say anything, or just let me stew in my own regrets, as I take a seat on the couch between her and Shepard.

Obviously, because she’s Penny, she says something.

I’m trying - I really am - but my eyes glaze over during her rant. I get the gist I mean, I know I fucked up. I know that I hurt Penny, that I lied to Shep, and -- that I upset Baz, too. But I haven’t quite figured out how to salvage my friendship with Baz quite yet. (If there ever was one.)

Penny finishes with a quote from Gloria Steinem, which could be a non sequitur but probably isn’t. I stammer further apologies. Shep jumps in at one point, and I apologise again to him, too. Before I understand what’s going on, he scoots over until he’s practically sitting on top of me.

“We haven’t been friends for long, Simon, but this is a big milestone. Our first fight.” He takes my head in both his hands and presses a long kiss to my forehead. Then, he pats my cheek. “You’re forgiven, buddy.”

My next stop is Pitch Manor, but when I arrive, Daphne tells me that Baz left last night after the party. She says that my things are still upstairs in his room. I insist that I can collect them on my own.

Walking back into the bedroom is...strange. It feels like the day and a half I spent here, with Baz’s family, was something out of a dream. Probably because I was acting -keeping up appearances for so long would confuse anyone.

Baz and I never resolved our fight. In fact, we haven’t spoken at all. There’s no need to, especially since I’ve retrieved my stuff, and Jeff and Terry aren’t getting divorced after all. There’s no need for the two of us to keep working together at all.

A normal business arrangement might end with a friendly lunch or a handshake. Although I’ve never parted with a colleague on such poor terms before.

Thoughts of Baz keep worming their way into my head. That’s not necessarily new, but I’ve seen a lot of him lately, so it made sense. Now...it doesn’t quite.

Neither does the fact that once I’ve packed my duffel bag, I lay down in Baz’s bed again and fill my lungs with the scent of his sheets.

I decide not to return the tie he loaned me.

As I’m driving home, I’m plagued with thoughts of Baz. It frustrates me enough that I have to rest my head against the steering wheel at a stoplight.

I can’t deal with this. I’m usually good at ignoring my own thoughts, as long as there’s a puzzle for me to fixate on. But this case is wrapped up, and Baz is the next most intriguing problem, so I’m bloody well fixated.

Suddenly, there’s a symphony of honks, and I look up to realise that the light’s gone green in the time I’ve spent brooding.

I can’t go on like this. I need some bloody closure.

I have no idea if Baz will be working on Monday, but I’m certainly not. So the next day, I drive to the Pitches’ agency and try to figure out if Baz is actually there by squinting at their window while sitting in my car.

Then I hear tapping against the driver’s side window and jump in my seat. It’s Fiona Pitch. 

I reluctantly roll it down. She looks smug.

“What are you planning to do, throw rocks until he comes outside? Just call Baz like a normal person and not a stalker.”

I sputter. “Technically, this is just my job.”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re not in a romantic comedy. You’ll have to think rationally if you want to go after the love of your life.”

I blush. _She’s just making a joke. A reference to our recent arrangement, nothing more._

I take a deep breath and dial Baz’s phone number.

BAZ

Fiona has drowned me in paperwork since I confessed my desire to take over the firm. I don’t mind, actually: administrative tasks relax me. (Yes, I’m disturbed.) It helps that I’m flush with warmth and excitement every time I imagine running my own firm.

If this could also distract me from thoughts of Simon, that would be grand. I think after my drunken, morose tangent last night, Fiona is thinking the same thing.

It’s been, what, six years since Simon and I met? Both of us were new to the profession then. Simon was dating Agatha Wellbelove and still working as Mage’s lapdog. He accompanied Mage and Wellbelove to some society function. (Meena Grimm’s graduation party.) He found some old bird’s lost necklace there. (Ruth Salisbury. Moonstone pendant.)

He smiled brightly at everyone, even though he was clearly uncomfortable, and hung onto Agatha like a lifeline. I spent the earlier part of the evening watching him with his girlfriend and drinking wine. And the latter part vomiting in Dev’s toilet.

I’m not sure you could call it love at first sight, but it was _something_. Every time I ran into him afterwards, I made sure to toss a barb or two his way, just to keep him at a distance. And to bask in his attention as he took offence.

Every time, barring the last few weeks.

I look down and realise that I’ve written Simon Snow’s name on all of these blasted forms, in ink no less. And then, as if that were some Satanic summoning ritual (paperwork _would_ open a gateway to hell), my phone rings. It’s him.

SIMON

I try to shoo Fiona away, but she pretends not to notice my gestures. She actually comes closer, resting her elbows on the open window and leaning her head in to listen to my call.

“Baz Pitch speaking.”

“It’s Simon. Simon Snow?”

He pauses for a painfully long moment before answering me. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He’s such a posh twat. We dated (pretended to date) for two weeks; I should have earned a more personal greeting by now.

“Uh, well. I just wanted to check up on you after yesterday. Things got a bit intense.”

BAZ

“It’s all sorted now,” I reply. And then, coldly, before I can stop myself: “There’s no need to check up on me.”

“Oh. Well. It was nice working with you,” he stammers. “I just - uh - yeah. Wanted to make sure the accounting was good on your end. No loose threads, all of that.”

I don’t know what to say in response, so I don’t say anything. Can I confess my love to him over a business phone call? Is that sexual harassment? Is there a universe where I’m brave enough to find out?

Then I hear a second voice on the line. One that I know all too well.

SIMON

“Jesus Christ, the two of you,” Fiona exclaims. I scramble to cover the speaker on my phone as she shouts into it, “He’s fucking _outside_ , Baz. Here - I’m giving him the key.”

Then she presses the cold metal to my palm. I don’t close my hand around it because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. This is too bizarre.

“Take it, moron!” she insists. “I’m taking the day off. Don’t drink all the good booze, and don’t splooge on anything important.”

BAZ

Neither of us has hung up the phone, but we’re still silent. Except for Fiona’s outburst, which prompts me to press my face against the window in hope of catching a glimpse of Simon Snow in the car park. Maybe he’ll be throwing rocks at my window.

Instead, I hear a knock on the door to the office, and he lets himself in.

I step away from my vantage point quickly and try to pretend I wasn’t pulling a Rapunzel.

“Snow?” I say, as levelly as possible.

“It’s Simon. You have to call me Simon if we’re dating.”

I raise an eyebrow. “We’re not dating.”

SIMON

That is not what I planned to say. The truth is, I came here with no plan at all. (But if there were a plan, that would not have been part of it.) 

“Well, I’m also sorry about yesterday. The party, fighting Terry, all of it.”

Baz doesn’t say anything. His expression doesn’t change one bit. Instead, he just stands up and starts walking towards me, slowly. The set of his jaw looks menacing.

“I’m sorry about everything, actually. I got you into this mess, and then just made everything worse,” I continue, trying to spill my contrition before Baz spills my blood. (We’ve never come to blows before, but it’s been a close thing.)

“I shouldn’t have lied to begin with. To Shepard or Penny. And I shouldn’t have dragged you down with this farce when you were just trying to do your job. I’d take it all back if I could,” I say.

“If you think that, then you're even more of an idiot than I imagined,” Baz snaps. “It’s part of the job. You thought on your feet, you put the client first, and found out the _truth_. Simon, I’ve no experience with divorce cases. If it weren’t for you, the truth wouldn’t have come to light yesterday. It would have been too late for Jeff and Terry whenever it did. Sure, you pissed some people off. You could have communicated better with the people in your life; so could I. But you _saved_ their marriage. Some people aren’t meant to be together, sure, but I think they are. You did a good thing. Because even when you’re a colossal fuck up and an absolute nightmare, you’re still so good.”

I stare at him. Forget this weekend; this is what feels surreal. Getting to see this side of Baz. All the same intensity and fury, but this time he’s using it to defend me. To build me up, instead of tear me down.

He’s rooted for me through this whole thing. I mean, I’m going to start baking professionally. I’m going to wrap up my current cases, and then I’m going to quit this job. I’ll get to follow a dream that’s all mine - not Mage’s or anybody else.

Baz _gets_ me. He’s handsome, smart, and funny. He’s a good kisser. A _really_ good kisser.

I’m...in love with Baz.

And then he kisses me.

*

LADY RUTH

“Hi. Welcome to Proof in the Pudding,” a young man calls out from the counter. “How can I help you?”

I hold my head high, even though my hands are trembling in the pockets of my wool coat.

“Hello,” I reply. He looks familiar. I squint at his name tag. "Simon, is it?" I know about twenty Simons. I should wear my glasses more often, but what can I say? I’ve allowed myself this bit of vanity.

“Yep,” he answers.

“I’ll take a sour cherry scone,” I say. It’s a sentimental answer, but everything about this is sentimental. The walls I’d built around myself are crumbling. I might as well break them down all the way.

“And,” I add, as I hand him my credit card, “I’ve got an appointment upstairs. Under ‘Ruth.’”

Simon nods, passing my card back along with my scone. I notice the glint of a wedding band - no, an engagement band? There are stones set into it. Maybe men wear engagement rings now; I can’t keep up with the youth.

He then pulls out a ledger from behind the cash register. “There you are - eleven am, for Ruth. Head on up. Baz is ready for you.”

I nod, breaking a piece from the scone and chewing it as I gather my courage.

Then, I forgo delicacy and take a whole bite, even though it makes me spill crumbs on my coat. 

This is delicious. My daughter would have loved it.

It’s that thought that propels me up the staircase. I knock on the door, and another young man opens it. I haven’t encountered Basil at any functions in a few years. I don’t remember how old he is, but he looks the same age as the man downstairs. However, he’s dressed impeccably in a suit, the furthest thing from Simon’s flour-stained apron.

I notice that he’s wearing a band too. The stones are different but the design is clearly coordinated with Simon’s.

Well, they’re a couple. Now I can place Simon - Mage’s protege. He found my lost necklace. 

That explains a lot. When Malcolm’s son was recommended to me, I couldn’t fathom why he would open a bakery-cum-private detective agency. Even though calling it ‘Proof in the Pudding’ is one hell of a pun.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Lady Salisbury,” Basil says. He hands me a glass of water, then motions for me to sit in the chair facing his desk. “We spoke a bit on the phone, but let’s start at the beginning, just to ensure that we cover all salient details.”

I drink the water gratefully. It feels like the crumbs of that delicious pastry are clogging up my throat.

Basilton sits down at his desk, templing his fingers and waiting for me to speak.

“My daughter, Lucy Salisbury, disappeared nearly thirty years ago,” I finally say. “I want you to find her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for going on this journey with me! Mysteries are my favorite genre, and I’ve always wanted to write some. This is the longest, most complex fic I’ve ever written.
> 
> Thank you to Ampithoe for the prompt, your comments, and your patience!
> 
> Say hello on tumblr!
> 
> Ps. We all know how this mystery ends, so please don’t consider it a cliffhanger 😂 it exists purely for the pun.


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